Moana: Secretary Under Review
by Gh0st7
Summary: Moana is no longer the chief's daughter, she no longer has a animal companion and she no longer is safe from harm. This time, she's entangled in a mess far larger than she, or anyone else, could ever imagine, in a world that is not her own.


**Part 1**

 **Uninvited: Guests**

 _I guess… or rather, I assume, it would be of no use to introduce myself to any of you. Most of you know who I am, the rest of you have already heard of me._

 _I was once the chief's daughter, who went across the sea to prevent the world from being consumed by a darkness that would have engulfed everything this world has to offer._

 _I'm not the first to tell this story, as it has been told by countless others before me. The tale of the hero who saves their kingdom from a mighty foe – it's a story everyone has heard in one way or another._

 _Today, though, the story I once thought I knew will permanently change and I, the one you all have heard of in one way or another, will also be changed._

 _Of all days, today is the day I will become something more than just a woman. Today I will become-_

"More coffee, Mr. Pence? You're looking a bit groggy, and you can't go out in front of a large crowd looking like you just woke up," said the tanned-skin, Polynesian girl who was just hired as Mike Pence's personal secretary.  
Pence tried his best to look at her, but his eyelids were far too heavy to actually make eye contact. He held out his cup and muttered what sounded like a "yes" and made a gesture that somewhat resembled a nod. As his secretary poured another cup, Mr. Pence once again tried to acknowledge her by attempting a "thank you", which sounded a lot more like a slurred mess of half-conscious mumbling.

"Mr. Vice President, I'd highly recommend you sit up in your chair and at least _try_ to drink your coffee before it gets cold," his secretary advised. He did what she asked, quickly drank his cup of coffee and stretched his arms before being able to make a coherent sentence.

"Thank you, Moana," said the vice president, "you have no idea how much you do for me".  
"Well, actually-" she began but was immediately interrupted by a man's voice over the loudspeaker.  
"We will be touching down in D.C. within the next hour, Mr. Vice President," said the booming voice that flooded the cabin, tuning out any of the small chit-chat among the flight attendants and fellow passengers.  
"Great," started Mike Pence, "I'm not ready for this, not one bit."  
He successfully made eye contact with Moana, which signified that he had fully recovered from his near-comatose state from the time they initially had taken off.

"Moana, I just want you to know that you've been a huge help and I know you're going to be a massive help to both the president and myself. Trust me when I say you're not going home broke… ever. I'll make sure of that myself."

Moana blowed and took her exit to the back of the plane where she was brewing another pot of coffee. It was an expensive Colombian brand – the only kind the vice president would ever drink.

For someone who was rather conservative, Moana thought to herself, he certain doesn't mind the public funding his overindulgence.  
She rinsed out the empty pot and placed it back into the designated coffee maker, put new beans in a filter and pushed the red button with the word "start" written above it in bold lettering.

"New pot is done, Mr. Pence," she yelled.  
"Thank you, ma'am," he replied.

Moana carefully grabbed the steaming pot with the word "regular" written on the front in red marker that was only slightly visible against the coffee. She turned around to head down the rows of empty seats towards the man who would be the second most powerful person in the country, who had personally chosen her as his secretary, but noticed that there was another head a few seats up from him. She nervously walked down the aisle, doing her best not to lose her balance and ruin the carpet.

Mike Pence was reading yesterday's newspaper and angrily mumbling to himself when she reached him, "Sir, did you invite anyone else on this flight?," she asked in a hushed tone.

"No, not that I'm aware of," he replied, also trying to keep his voice down.

"Then who's that?" she asked, pointing to the individual about six seats up on the opposite side of the aisle.

He shook his head and propped himself up to get a better look at the mystery person whom was not scheduled for the flight.  
"Hold on," he said to her as he got up and walked toward the stranger with his hands in the coat pockets of a gray jacket which was accompanied by his white, long-sleeved shirt and red tie. He stopped just behind the seat the unregistered passenger was seated and crossed his arms.

"Excuse me, the flight plan I just flied with the agency lists me, my men and my secretary here, but no one like you. I'd suggest you talk if you'd like to stay on my aircraft," the vice president said with a stern tone.  
The unregistered passenger didn't respond, looking straight forward towards the cockpit.  
"I don't think you understood my request," started Pence, "I asked you to tell me what you're doing on my plane and how you got here without anyone noticing. Who are you?"

An increasingly impatient gaze could be seen on his face as the individual in question didn't respond. Mike Pence put a hand on the back of the headrest and swung himself around to face the trespasser, but the second he made eye contact his expression of restlessness changed to fear, followed by a shriek.

"Not here; not now!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, still unable to detach his stare from the stranger.

"What do you have for me?" asked the President-Elect, Donald J. Trump to his advisor, who was a young man with glasses, of slim figure, and sporting a black suit, as they walked down the runway towards Air Force One.  
"The Vice President, Mr. Pence, should be arriving soon. Once on the ground, we will conduct all formal security checks and proceed with the-"  
"Yes, yes, I understand that," the president-elect interrupted, "I want to know how we're going to handle the ceremonies."  
His secretary looked puzzled and brushed his bangs behind his right ear in an effort to look less unprofessional, "what do you mean, sir," he asked in the most polite tone possible.  
"I mean," began Trump in a louder-than-usual composure, "are we going to order sushi or fish tacos for the afterparty?"  
"Afterparty?," responded his advisor.

"Yes, afterparty. Don't we have an afterparty after the initial rituals are done?"  
"No, Mr. Trump, sir, we don't usually have any celebration after the inauguration. You… have a country to run," he said with a voice full of both regret and discomfort.

The President-Elect threw up his hands in a moment of frustration, "what the _fuck_ kind of country is this? Do we really not see that these things matter? Throwing a party on an occasion like this makes the world go 'round! Hell, let's do it - invite everyone in Washington and, for the hell of it, invite Hillary too… and Bill! We can settle our differences right then and there!"

"Yes, sir, I – I guess it can't hurt," his advisor replied looking down and jotting down a few notes. He placed the pen he was using behind his ear where he previously positioned his bangs, and once again faced the future president of his country.  
"Of course it can't hurt! In fact, it can only help. It will help this country and - look at this, I'm already making this country great again and I'm not even in office! Oh man, these people are gonna love me!," Trump yelled aloud.

The young man looked at his watch and then flipped through his notes, looking back at his watch and occasionally checking through his notes again and again. His face expressed nervousness, and his rapid breathing meant something was certainly amiss.  
Trump took notice and walked over to the man, peering over his shoulder.

"Say, what's wrong?," he asked.  
He swung around all while still searching through his notepad, franticly trying to find something of importance. The frenzied 20-something finally directed his gaze towards Trump, "Mr. Pence was supposed to arrive five minutes ago. If he doesn't get here soon, we won't be able to practice for the rehearsal walk," he nearly screamed.

Trump gave him a look of disregard, "oh please, we don't need to rehearse. It's a walk: I wave to people, I look pretty. There's nothing to it."  
His young advisor breathed out a sigh of anxiety and wiped his brow, "the vice president's plane has never been late before," he said.

 **Part 2**

 **Sacred or Secular, The Choice is Yours**

Moana had curled up in a seat following the reaction of the her boss; she still could hear him breathing heavily, quickly and with a sense of urgency. Eventually, she gained the disposition to climb out and walk towards the commotion, grasping each chair and pushing herself forward until she was right next to Mr. Pence who was still consumed by fear.  
He grabbed her by the shoulder's and swiftly looked directly into her eyes.  
"I want you to get the parachute next to the emergency kit and get out of this plane, right now. The secret service will know how to find you," he said so excited that he could barely catch his breath.  
"What about you?," Moana asked

"Don't worry about me," he said, "they taught you how to use that thing, right?"  
She nodded, but otherwise paralyzed by the current situation.

"Get out of here! Go!," he pushed her back towards the emergency supplies.  
She gathered what she needed and pulled open the nearest exit, taking one last look at the vice president.  
"Go!" he demanded one final time.

Moana closed her eyes, breathed in and jumped.

With the air across her face and the intense pressure against her body, she fell towards the ground. Her arms and feet were spread to try and reduce the speed of her descent, just as she learned in training. As she saw the ground coming closer and closer, she began counting down from ten, timing each and every second just as she was taught by her instructor - a tall, dark and handsome blonde haired, blued hunk she'd crushed on since day one. Then as she reached the end of the countdown, she pulled the ripcord and felt herself being carried upwards.

The wind directed her towards a field, golden with wheat and barley.  
Once close enough to the ground, she disconnected her safety harness and fell into the crop, which stifled her fall enough that she could land safely.

Bruised, coming down from an adrenaline rush and trying to make sense of what had just happened, Moana picked herself up and walked towards what looked like lights off in the distance. Night had fallen and being alone in a place completely foreign to herself was not on her bucket list.

As she got closer to the light, she noticed that it was coming from a rather large, finely decorated home with a stone exterior and a large, wooden door that was accompanied by a mantle that brightly lit the front porch. She approached the door and rang the doorbell, clutching her torn uniform as the cold, damp essence of night began to settle upon her.

"I'll get it," came a woman's voice amongst the laughs and chit-chat of other individuals. The woman's foot steps could be heard across a wooden floor as she came to answer her door.

"Hell- oh my god!" the woman gasped, "sweetheart, what happened to you?" She was a short lady of irish ancestry with red hair and freckles under her eyes and across her nose, who wore what to be a dress that was directly out of the '50s.

"You wouldn't believe me," Moana replied. She was already starting to feel the weight of the day's events on her psyche and wanted nothing more than to lay down.

"Come inside, please," urged the woman as she directed Moana into her home, "I'll go get some new clothes for you and something to eat - Richard, get down here, we have a visitor!"

"Coming, darling, coming!" replied the man who was rushing down the stairs while getting dressed.

She sat Moana down at the sofa and gave her a bowl of soup. It was the best soup Moana ever had, even though it was from a can. Anything to take her mind off of what had just happened was the best thing she ever experienced. Soon she was given new clothes and a blanket to put over her shoulders as well, all of which she felt more grateful for than ever before.  
While she ate, the husband sat down in a chair next to her.  
"You look like you've been through hell," said with a subtle laughter, which was more out of amazement than mocking. He was an older gentleman with a similar complexion to his wife, but with graying hair and a receding hairline.

"You- you could say that," she replied.

"Care to explain? I mean, if you want to," he said attempting to sound sympathetic as possible.

Moana looked down at the soup in her lap, once again closed her eyes and took a deep breath and began to tell her tale, "I am Moana, I serve the vice president of the United States of America as his personal secretary. We had an inciden-"  
"You're Mr. Pence's secretary? Why didn't you say so?," interjected the man, "I'm Dick Chugg, governor of this fine state of Nebraska! I know Mr. Pence personally; and I heard he got a very competent secretary just last month! You must be her!" 

He held out his hand, but Moana did not return the favor.  
"I do not know if he's still alive," she said.  
A look of confusion overcame the governor, "what do you mean?" he asked.

"We had an incident on the plane, an unexpected passenger was on board. Mr. Pence told me to get a parachute and get out as soon as possible," she paused for a moment, "he told me to leave him."  
Moana didn't look up from her soup for what seemed an eternity until she realized the governor hadn't responded to her last statement.  
She looked at him only to see that he was pale, his eyes open wide and an aura of fear encompassing his entire form. He had rested his nose and chin on his hands, crossing his fingers and touching his thumbs. 

"Oh my god," he said, "oh my god, they're back."


End file.
